


A Night to Try to Forget

by theskylarshippers (coyotestoryteller)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, cross-posted to my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotestoryteller/pseuds/theskylarshippers
Summary: Alexander wakes early. Everything is as it should be. Something is wrong, but he can’t pinpoint the change. Then he remembers the date and wishes he hadn’t.It's the 27th of August...
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	A Night to Try to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> My writing piece for the Hamilton Holiday Calendar 2019 (hamiltonholidaycalendar.tumblr.com). Cross-posted from my tumblr @synonyms-for-sky. I'm new to AO3, so if I failed at posting this correctly or have major formatting issues, *please* tell me.

Alexander wakes early. Dresses and steps into his office. Everything as it should be. He works quickly. Something is wrong, but he can’t pinpoint the change. Then he remembers the date and wishes he hadn’t.

He doesn’t go to breakfast with his family. He stays in his office and writes. Philip and Angie don’t need to see his despair. Seven years old is too young to learn what death can do to people.

Dinner with Eliza and the children in the dining room is tense. He doesn’t speak. Philip chatters to Angie about something or other. Eliza won’t meet his eyes. He tries to listen to Philip but doesn’t take in a single word.

After dinner. The light is beginning to fade.

“I’m going out.”

“Alexander…”

“I’m fine.”

He walks the streets of New York City, at first checking his direction often, then walking faster with his head down along streets he knew well, muttering under his breath- it didn’t matter what he thought about, as long as he wasn’t thinking about that.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t…

He reaches the tavern, steps inside, orders a pint of beer. Sits at a table by the window. Raises his glass.

“What time is it?”

No one answers; no one else comes over to knock glasses. No one else toasts him.

He drains his glass, orders another. Tries to forget. Somehow he can’t.

“Hey, John.

It’s been a while. Feels like years.

Well. One year. Heh.

How’s your life been? You young? Carefree? Drinking with the soldiers up there? I imagine you’re happy.

Why am I talking like this? I know you’re gone. But I suppose it’s a happy fantasy. To think I’m talking to you, that you’re still here. I don’t know. Somehow I don’t care.

I’m doing fine. All things considered, it’s been a good year. The children are growing up. Eliza sends her love– or would if I’d told her I’m talking to you, after she’d finished calling me insane.

But that’s not what I’m here for tonight. I’m sorry, John. I know you don’t like to hear about Eliza. Let’s have another round, shall we?”

He goes to the bar. Orders another shot. Talks to no one.

“‘They’ll tell the story of tonight…’ Remember that? Wish I could tell your story. Our story. Wish ya could’ve seen the founding of our nation. You deserved it.

You all want another round?”

He’s far away now, in the same tavern years before. Talking to a man now dead and two others who are no longer the men they used to be.

“I’ll keep fighting for liberty as long as I live. I am not throwing away my shot!”

The bar is crowded. No one notices him.

He becomes aware that he was stumbling over every word, tripping on imperceptible cracks.

When was the last time he was this drunk?

Probably about this time last year.

He orders two shots. Walks unsteadily to the table. Pulls the window open, sets one shot on the window ledge.

“Goodbye, Laurens. See you next year. I’ll love you always. And I wouldn’t lie to you, you know me.

Raise a glass to freedom, my dear Laurens.

‘Raise a glass to freedom’…”

“I miss you,” he whispers.

He downs one shot, leaves the other on the window ledge, steps outside. The bartender has worked here for years and has seen this charade play out before. The glass will remain on the windowsill until the end of the night. At closing time the bartender will pour its contents outside and close the window. The bartender has seen a lot of him over the years.

Alexander wanders home. He doesn’t follow the same direct route. His senses are clouded. It’s better this way, he thinks. At least he doesn’t have to remember.

He can almost pretend a man long dead is by his side, almost fall through time to that night in 1776, the blur of firelights and the exhilaration, the quiet in the storm.

He stumbles into the house noisily, bumping into things, falling, cursing. Eliza rushes downstairs.

“Alexander, you’ll wake the children !”

He turns to her, shocked back to earth by her voice. “The, the children. Of course. I forgot.” He was once again startled by how difficult it was to form words, how the floor swayed beneath his feet, and by the sudden realization that he was completely out-of-his-mind drunk.

“You forgot. Oh. Of course. It’s the 27th. I’m sorry, Alexander. You should go to bed.”

“Yes. Yes, I should.”

He doesn’t move. She grabs his hand and leads him upstairs, pulls him into bed. Closes the curtains, doesn’t close her eyes until she’s sure he’s asleep.

August 28.

Alexander wakes early. His wife is already gone. He can hear her playing the piano in the downstairs room.

That never happens. She’s always asleep when he wakes up. He realizes it’s not early after all. Somehow he slept through the dawn.

The curtains were closed. Of course. That was it, that must have been it.

Then he remembers the last night through a dim haze.

Eliza’s calling him to breakfast. He gets up, changes his clothes, and makes his way downstairs. He throws himself into conversation with his wife and children. He goes to his office and works just as well as he did the last week. Life goes on and he tries not to remember the night before. Getting through the day is enough for him right now.

Eliza approaches him late in the evening. He doesn’t hear her until she’s by his side.

“Alexander, you’re distancing yourself.”

“Eliza-”

“I know. If you’re mine for fifty-one weeks of the year, he can have you for one. But it’s not just one week, Alex. You’re distant for ages. And even in the winter you’re always working. Why is it?”

“I suppose to forget. It’s easier with something to do.”

“To forget him?”

“The war. The screams. The aching. And him, I suppose.”

“Funny thing that you want to forget while all I want is to remember. Didn’t you debate Samuel Seabury once in the square? Started off with a nice argument; he didn’t rise to the challenge, so you mocked him? I’m reading my diaries and I wrote about seeing this debate in the square when out with my sisters. Burr tried to flirt with Angelica. Was that you that day?”

“I suppose so.”

“What do you do every year on the 27th?”

“Go to the tavern where the four of us met. Drink to his memory. Drink out my memory. Stumble home and remember the past clearly enough to think I’m living it.”

“I wish you were closer to our children.”

“I try, Betsy. I’m not good at all of this. A week is enough for him, but not for everything else– and sometimes it’s just work and I can put it aside for a while, but not often. Maybe there’ll be a day when the war can be confined to a week of pain like he can. But not yet.”

“Next year.. will you let me meet you at the corner?”

“I don’t know how late I’ll be out.”

“I’ll wait. You shouldn’t need to bear that alone.”

“All right.

…Eliza?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, Alexander.”

That’s all she can say. She sits there for a moment watching him work until he breaks stride and the two of them go up to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and constructive criticism greatly appreciated.


End file.
